


Never Was a Deputy

by Lover_of_all_things_Pat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean Winchester, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23587213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lover_of_all_things_Pat/pseuds/Lover_of_all_things_Pat
Summary: Flames engulfed the entire house. John ran to safety with Sammy. Dean was found and carried out by a fireman; he wasn't breathing.
Comments: 22
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

PROLOGUE 

In Lawrence, Kansas a real life horror movie happened upon an unsuspecting family. A strange man in the nursery, a mother murdered, a fire spontaneously starting and spreading faster than wildfire; the father, one John Winchester, had grabbed his youngest son, an infant named Sam, and ran from the house in favor of safety. He'd lost his wife; he couldn't lose the baby too.

It is when he is sitting curbside, clutching a crying Sam in his arms and ignoring the growing crowd of press, bystanders and officials and police and firefighters, that John becomes aware of increased group hysteria, everyone gasping and shouting and asking if the kid is okay. John opens his mouth to say "Sammy's fine," but no words come when he realizes that his other son has just now been carried out, limp and lifeless, and already EMTs are attempting to resuscitate. 


	2. Chapter 2

An angel, a demon, and a reaper crowded around the small form of a boy. The boy's soul, burning brighter than bright as it lifted from the body, materialized into the familiar shape of its lifelong host.

The reaper, with the appearance of a young woman, calmly grasped the hand of the personified soul.

The angel huffed in irritation and reached for a blade in a threatening gesture. "The young Winchester cannot die now. It is not Heaven's plan."

"Heaven's plan?!" the demon barked out a harsh laugh."Go fly a kite, you feathered fool! This child needs to protect our investment."

The reaper opened her mouth to defend her own duties when suddenly, the child's soul lunged and forced itself back into its former vessel. The entry was clumsy and awkward and the possession was slow to take. With each passing second that the soul worked its way back into the body, the bright light dimmed and thickened until the last of it resembled black smoke.

The supernatural beings fell silent with intrigue,.

There were moments of absolute _nothing_ before the dead boy jackknifed into a sitting position and proceeded to cough violently.

A staff member ran in, bewildered but hopefully. She clutched a crucifix around her neck and whispered a prayer as she jammed a finger at the Nurse Call button.

The room erupted with activity, doctors and nurses flooding, checking Dean's vitals and coherency, getting him on oxygen, then going to the grievance room to alert the father of the new revelation: that his dead son was no longer dead.

The angel, demon, and reaper bickered over the fate of the Winchester family and parted ways. Their interference was not called for under new stipulations.

When allowed, John ran to his eldest son's side and sputtered apologies and concerns about not being able to get Dean out of the fire. All the while, he held Sam close. He didn't dare admit that Dean hadn't even been a passing thought during the emergency.

For a long time, Dean said nothing. The light of the room played tricks with the boy's eye color but no one bothered to mention it.

The lack of communication further instilled guilt within John, but he pushed that guilt aside. Because Dean looked fine, and the kid knew enough that he should have been able to get out of the house.

Right?

The uncertainty and refusal to accept blame didn't sit well with John. His stomach clenched with unease. For a moment, he wondered if he should hug Dean. Then his eyes misted over because... _Mary_.

Mary would know what to do. She'd know how to comfort them all and fix the world with a smile and a bowl of soup.

After an undetermined amount of silence, Dean finally spoke: "I don't remembered a fire... Can I hold Sammy now?"


	3. Chapter 3

It's been almost 2 years since the fire, and John is as lost as he had been that night he'd run out with Sam. He's got both boys, alive and well, but his thoughts rarely stray away from the loss of his wife.

He tried to move on. He got a motel room, routinely settled the kids then made friends with Jim and Jack and Jose and any kind of alcohol that would numb his pain from the loss, absolve him of guilt, and make him blind to the path he'd set foot on. 

John's half blitzed and talking with some strange fellow, a man who speaks of black-eyed demons and creatures that only come out at night. He's just a few minutes out the road at a bar, the motel a short distance with the door locked and the boys sleeping.

John listens to this man's nonsense about werewolves and shapeshifters. He listens about Wendigos and witches.

By the time he makes it back to the motel room, one of his few lucid thoughts is that he needs to protect his boys. His family. He won't lose them like he lost his wife.

John stumbles into the room and locks the door behind him. He all but falls facedown on the bed, shoes and coat still on.

He doesn't bother checking on the kids. They were sleeping earlier, probably still sleeping now. If he had checked or even spared a glance, he'd see Sammy sitting in a chair, all smiles, face covered in spaghetti sauce; and Dean, kneeling in front of the chair, guiding a sporkful of food to his baby brother's mouth.

Between bites, Dean whispers "Look, Sammy"- he whispers like he has a secret, and Sam giggles and leans in to get a look at what he is supposed to see- and Dean's brilliant antifreeze green eyes flash inky black, then turn green again. 

It's like Peekaboo. And Sam loves it.


	4. Chapter 4

Both boys are in school and by some miracle they are thriving. Sam is a fast learner and already reads better than children two grades ahead of him. Dean's charm and sharp wit is something teachers either love or hate.

It's inconvenient but unsurprising that John is called in for a parent-teacher conference. It's held in the teachers' lounge, and coffee is offered and declined. The principal, guidance counselor, and a couple teachers are sitting on one side of the room while John is seated opposite of them.

"Sam has a spelling test tacked on the fridge and Dean hasn't brought home anything lower than a C. What's the problem?" It's not that he intends to be rude but pleasantries should be set aside when they clearly have a problem with his boys if they need to call a parent in. He takes measured breaths to appear calm but a hand drums idly atop his thigh in a familiar pattern. He knows this is important. A father has a duty to oversee his kids' education. But the bulk of his brain is still sifting through what he recalls reading in the newspaper. He thinks it's a poltergeist...

The school's staff all exchange looks, a silent conversation passing before someone speaks. It's Sam's teacher.

"Sam is such a bright boy, but he is very... imaginative. The kids like him but his eccentric ideas make it hard for him to make friends."

John's expression is level if not a bit dark. "Kids are supposed to be imaginative," he says simply, not seeing the problem.

"Kids can be cruel," another teacher says. "Sam insists his family is magic. The other kids don't understand his imagination, and they tend to make jokes. Sam is very upset by this."

"That's on you," is John's only rebuttal. "Aren't you supposed handle situations like that?"

The teachers once again share a look, this time it's clear frustration.

The guidance counselor chimes in next. "I've seen Dean three times this week and twice last week. He doesn't go to the cafeteria for lunch and he refuses recess. Instead of running along with the other kids, he sits in the hall just outside Sam's classroom."

John opens his mouth to dismiss the case and place reason on their brotherly affection. But the woman continues before he can offer his two cents.

"Also, are you familiar with _yellow rings_?"

John frowns and furrows his brow. "Yellow rings?"

It's the principal who pulls out a folder and then retrieves a sheet of paper- no, several sheets of paper, all covered in sets of bright yellow circles drawn, some in crayon while others are marker or colored pencil.

Yellow rings. Bright and fiery.

Two to complete a set. Drawn over and over, obsessive and excessive. A haunting mantra manifested on paper.

Staring long enough, the idea occurs that they might be eyes. Big yellow ones. Like that of a monster, or demon...

"I'll talk to the boys," John relents with a heavy sigh.

...

Later that night, Dean gets his first lesson in packing salt rounds while Sammy eats two day old pizza. John goes out hunting. When he returns battered and bruised the boys are fast asleep while a b-rated horror film plays on the small tv. He never gets around to talking to them.

The following day, arrangements are made for them to be pulled from school. They pack up and chase a lead. Someone tipped John off, advising him to meet with someone named Robert Singer.


	5. Chapter 5

The trip to Sioux Falls is not an immediate one. What is supposed to be a pit stop at a diner evolves into a month-long stay in a roach motel when John overhears a couple regulars talk about how a friend-of-a-friend has a neighbor with sporadic disturbances: flickering lights, cold spots, and the occasional odd sound or misplaced object. And then there is the matter of suspicious activity in the local cemetery.

It's too much for a hunter to resist. He books a room for himself and the boys, leaves them with a silver knife and a fraudulent credit card and tells them he'll be gone for a couple days. Regular rules apply. Salt the doorway and don't talk to strangers. He's never given them the full reasons for the Winchester ways, but they listen well enough. With a hug for Sam and a brief but heavy stare for Dean, John prepares to leave. 

Sam had hugged his dad but there was no squeeze, no sincerity within the realms of the obligatory embrace. A quick wrap of the arms and a pat on the back. The hug was about as mandatory as brushing teeth. It happens because it was supposed to happen. It's different than when Sam hugs his brother, because when he does, Dean tightens his arms in a way that makes Sam feel intensely secure- like he couldn't wriggle or pat his way out of it if he wanted to. Sam could suffocate in his brother's arms and Dean would still retain his vice-like grip...

Before John's departure Dean neither gave nor received any semblance of a hug. Instead they traded measured stares, eyes meeting and exchanging a mesh of promise and resignation. 

Watch out for Sammy.

-as if Dean would do anything else. The nerves under his flesh prickle at the implication. Every other molecule in his DNA was an entire script pledging himself to his little brother's existence. He'd never known why. But sometimes, when Sammy falls asleep and he lay awake at night, he thinks entirely too much. 

Now and then, he remembers blonde hair and warm hugs, rice and tomato soup, sandwiches with the crust cut off. He remembers yelling and the stench of pungent alcohol before his father would storm out of the house. 

If he thinks hard enough, he can almost remember Mary. He thinks about how she smelled, how her voice sounded when she held him and sang Hey Jude in a soft and mournful tone. But he can't remember her face, even though he has dug through his father's bag and seen the photos. His mom's face is always blurred when he tries to recall it. Watery and distorted, like looking at an image through ripples in water. 

He likes to think she was pretty. 

He had a school assignment once, to draw his family. Too young for any real talent, he'd drawn Sam and his father, circles for heads. The teacher had been surprised and said 'you forgot to draw your mommy'.

Dean tried, for all he was worth, to draw his mom. He thought of blonde hair and Hey Jude and that soup and those sandwiches. He picked up a yellow crayon- for the blonde hair- and drew two circles. Then he grabbed another sheet of paper and drew another set of circles. Then another. Then he stole another child's artwork and scribbled circles on top- making that other child cry. The teacher intervened when Dean's artwork found its way onto a wooden desktop and Dean had replied with a snarky declaration of "I don't have a mom, you dumb bitch! "

Dean was sent to the principal's office, not for his swearing or class disruption, but for his obsession with drawing yellow rings. The teacher hoped beyond hope that the disturbed Winchester child would receive some form of counseling afterwards. 

That hope was in vain. 

Thing is, for Dean, some things are like switches: abstract toggles with hair triggers. When those triggers are pulled, he gets compulsive and angry, and sometimes he acts out in ways he doesn't fully understand. 

Mary is one of those triggers. Sam is another. That fire that his mom died in, that's a big one, because he died in it too.

John's not a trigger. John is confusing. The man is a dad and a father and a protector. He mourns the wife he lost and tries to make sure his youngest son is cared for. 

Dean understands this. But he wonders if, when he died, someone mourned him too? If, at any point in time after his revival, his own needs were met beyond food and shelter?

He doesn't dwell on these thoughts too long. Because Sammy needs a dad. And sometimes Dean thinks about those guns dad keeps in the trunk of the Impala, and he wants to see a bullet between his old man's eyes. 

Point blank range. 

The jolt of recoil and the spatter of blood. 

Dean's own eyes are black and his face twists into a cruel imitation of a smile. 

"What's for dinner, Dee? Can we have Mac and Cheese?"


	6. Chapter 6

The Winchesters are still in a motel; the name ROBERT SINGER is scripted on a napkin and tucked into John's journal to serve as a reminder that they have a destination in mind but are fine getting there on their own time.

The boys are once again enrolled in another run-of-the-mill public school where Sam is a ball of energy, diving into new learning material and homework and group activities. Sam knows he's different than the other kids but he's learning to fit in better, mostly by not talking about his family or nomadic life. He talks to the other kids about tv and school and asks questions about the things they do. Most importantly he tries not to be disappointed that John never taught him to ride a bike, never took him to a baseball game or made a trip to play basketball at the court on park grounds. When they ask about him, Sam tells them about movie nights and how his brother likes westerns; he talks about his dad's taste in music, and the rest he fabricates with inspiration from sitcoms and books.

Dean is adjusting to new things this time around. He's taken a notice of girls and sometimes that's all he can think of. The jokes and perverted remarks he makes at school have quickly become second nature. He's a bit clownish and too bold. He placed a hand on the thigh of that hot substitute teacher when he visited her at her desk to ask a question. She didn't object, so he slid his hand higher and the fabric of her skirt slid up. Her face tinted pink, heated by shock at the impropriety. She opened her mouth to protest just as he dove in, lips almost connecting, their journey stunted by a slap to the face. Dean was a legend as he paraded the halls with a hand-shaped welt on his cheek.

John is spending a little more time with his sons, listens to Sam talk about school and long division and his new friend who likes videogames and skateboarding. John looks at Dean with amusement and a little pride when he takes note that the boy is upping his game with better hygiene and causally asking for new clothes because the old ones don't quite fit right anymore (and maybe he cares how he looks). John takes the boys out and allows them an agreeable amount of new clothes and shoes to pick out.

It's good to see the boys doing so well. Dean isn't even sending death glares at John like he had been. And Sam, Sam is happier than he'd been in a while.

This is all good until, at the small crappy table in their small crappy motel room, Sam asks: "Dad, what do you do for a living?"

Because, for a school assignment, Sam needs to know. And it's weird that his dad never talks about work and he sometimes comes home injured. It's a little alarming. Sam's never said anything but he's thinking that his dad either works for the mob or FBI. They don't have the kind of money for John to be some sort of agent...

John picks though his Chinese food and answers: "I'm a mechanic."

"But we never stay in one place very long. Why-"

"Sam," John is using his 'this is a warning' tone. "

"Dad does odd jobs," Dean cuts in. John's never told him explicitly but he figures Sam might not be ready for the truth. Dean knows it's not a good and honest job; he helps with laundry. He's had to scrub and pretreat the blood stains in John's clothes.

For the first time in a long time John appreciates an effort made by his eldest. He's not ready to tell Sam about monsters.

The pleasant evening is mostly ruined, the atmosphere thick with awkward tension.

John takes a breath and makes a life-defining decision.

"Sam, finish your food, double check your homework, wash up and go to bed. Dean, come with me."

Sam grumbles and feels left out. But he doesn't protest further.

Dean's sense of unease strangles his vocal chords and prevents direct argument. He follows John's lead; they both grab coats and pull on boots.

Before walking out, John hands Dean the box of salt and tells him to line the door.

Dean does, then they lock the door and head for the Impala.

"I've been wanting to include you," John says. "The real family businesses, and what I do. There never seemed to be a good time and and you've been hard to read. Moody."

Dean crosses his arms and quirks a brow. His skin itches and his teeth hurt. There's a general sense of wrong-danger-fight-run. But he's not afraid of his dad, and running is a cowardly thing to do.

The night air tastes like pollution and the street lights do little to lighten anything.

John pops the trunk and reveals a small arsenal, one that Dean had already seen a number of times.

"That thing that killed your mother," John begins-

And Dean's breath hitches. This can't possible go well.

-"it was-"

"Fire," Dean cuts in. He doesn't like thinking about the fire. It seems unreal to him. If he ignores it, it's easier to pretend away.

"-a demon," John finishes. "And what I do- what we are going to do- is hunt that son of a bitch."

Dean can't help the way his body moves on its own accord, taking a step back. Maybe he should have ran. Or...

John's half-bent digging through the trunk; he grabs a pre-packed duffel bag and tells his eldest son, "Let's go for a walk."

Dean doesn't miss how the bag isn't completely zipped and the barrel of a gun is protruding.


	7. Chapter 7

They've gone out of town on foot and hiked through wooded land into a clearing. Targets have been tacked to a few trees and empty beer cans have been set on old stumps. John placed a loaded gun in Dean's hands and said: "Shoot."

It's surreal, the experience itself. The gun is a lot heavier than he thought it would be. The movies always make guns seem weightless. Realistically, metal is heavy and a double barrel shotgun makes gravity seem angry; surely a gun's wielder possesses a level of Herculean strength. It's embarrassing how much the firearm tugs at Dean's arms, pulls at his lean muscles as he bears its heft.

John fixes Dean's hold, kicks his boy's booted foot and instructs him to widen his stance.

"Aim and shoot," John says, then steps back and leans against a tree all casual and watchful: an artful critic. "Careful. I've got a box of ammo to burn through for this occasion, and every round you waste on a bad shot is going to cost you a mile's worth of running in the morning." He gestures towards a beaten path, a runner's trail.

Dean balked. He wasn't unfit by any means but this was all new territory, and he loathed that his little brother had been left behind for the excursion.

"It's dark," Dean excused, lowering the gun and shaking his head. "Probably should do this with better lighting." 

_Better lighting and Sam not left alone._

John's dissatisfaction was immediate, an invisible presence with an overbearing feel. The older Winchester reclaimed the gun and set it down, then gave his son a shove so hard that the boy fell and landed on his butt in the mudd and leaves. "Then we'll do something's different. Get up. Now."

Dean huffed in irritation but got up and began dusting himself off, only to be shoved again. He caught himself and landed on his hands and knees this time.

"Get up, now." John's voice came out like a bark. Rough and demanding.

Dean could feel a slight pressure in his eyes as they flashed an angry black but he willed away the dark before he got up to face his old man again.This time when John reached out to shove again, Dean stopped one of John's big hands with both of his, gripping at the wrist. 

"Keep trying," John said simply, using his free hand to smack his son upside the head. "If you don't find a way to stop me, I'll keep doing it." He jerked his hand away from Dean's grasp and held up two fists. "Each hit is going to get harder unless you can stop me." With that, he swung, right cross.

Dean instinctively dodged but his father's hand still managed to cuff his ear, the feeling unpleasant and his ear reddening almost instantly, numb for the time being. "You hit like a bitch," Dean spat irritably, the words coming before he could think them through, and he ate those words when John delivered a punch to the stomach that had him doubling over. "You fuckin' suck, old man," he coughed out, arms around his midsection to soothe and protect.

"You didn't want to shoot. I'm just making sure you can protect Sammy. So far you're doing a shit job."

"Well maybe you're a shitty father," Dean grumbled, managing to straighten up. It hadn't hurt as bad as he thought it should; the lack of preparation was worse than the hit itself.

He'd also been unprepared for John hands to shoot out and grab either side of his head, the grip tight and fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. For a moment Dean wondered if his father was going to break his neck or try to crush his skull. It certainly felt that way.

"The only way this works is with cooperation, Dean. You do this my way, or you don't do it at all. There is real evil out there, worse than you can imagine."

The words are muffled with John's palms fitted over Dean's ears.

With a rough shove John's hands come away and Dean stumbles to regain balance. He hates that. He hates that John is able to push him around so easily. He hates that John is too busy with a vendetta to take care of Sam right. He hates that John drug him out in the middle of the night and left Sammy alone with only salt as protection.

John turned to collect the targets and put those along with the gun back in the bag, his outing with Dean decidedly a lost cause. He'd hoped to get in some shooting practice and maybe some hand-to-hand, then they'd work up to prepping for a hunt they could do together- probably a salt-and-burn, something simple. But now, that was derailed by Dean's apparent lack of cooperation.

Such a disappointment.

Facing away and packing the duffel, John didn't see the way Dean's eyes shifted to a darker color, the way his face pinched and entire body tightened with anger, like a coiled viper ready to strike. John didn't see the way Dean lifted both hands, one extended and exerting invisible pressure, demonic energy, to pin John in place; Dean's other hand made contact with his father's head...

... and slammed it into a nearby tree with alarming force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: wouldn't it be convenient to have portable devils traps?


	8. Chapter 8

John's eyes blinked open to fuzzy dark surroundings. He lie on his back with his head propped against a tree at a sharp and uncomfortable angle. His shotgun is within arm's reach and there's an empty beer can in his hand. His mind is fogged with details but he knows he had plans with Dean.

His head hurt. Touching a hand to the source of pain, his fingers come in contact with blood that is starting to coagulate.

He was going to teach Dean to shoot. To fight. To protect Sam.

He can taste blood in his mouth. He might have bitten his tongue.

He remembered taking Dean on a walk, a hike, to a clearing he'd been using to keep his own skills sharp.

Sitting up makes him a little nauseous and he swallows bile and old chewed and partially digested Chinese food. 

He remembered Dean's resistance to his attempt at training, and his gut rolls like thunder. He raised his boy better than that, hadn't he? If not, he'd made a mistake. Spare the rod and spoil the child, so to speak.

His vision is starting to clear and adjust to the darkness, but it's hardly dark at all. There's a controlled fire nestled in a neat well of rocks. Dean is sitting by the fire and stoking it with a stick; ember-hot ashes rise and fall.

"Dean," John begins, and his voice is rough, throat sore, tender. It feels tight. The sort of feeling that lingers after being choked out or strangled. But that hardly makes sense. This hadn't been a hunt.

Dean looks at John, shadows and flames dancing in patterns across his young face. He looks a cruel mix of angelic and devilish. He is Jekyll and Hyde.

"You drink too much," Dean says, and it sounds as accusing as it does factual. "School says it's bad. Alcoholism, y'know. It drives some people mad, tears families apart."

John doesn't remember drinking tonight. But there are several beer cans littered about. He scrunches his brow and wipes a hand over his face. The night air is cool but the fire is making him sweat.

Dean gets up and reaches a hand out to John, an offer to help him up. "If you're done talking about monsters," the younger Winchester says, "we should get back to Sam. You can tell him how you drank like a wino, then fell and busted your head."

None of that sounds right to John. But the night's events aren't all there in his mind. His head is spinning, and his body feels worn down.

Maybe he had fallen?

When John exhales there's no beer on his breath. The cans, he knows, are old and simply used for targets. He hasn't drank that brand in a while.

_Which means Dean is lying._

But they _should_ get back to Sam. They'd been gone a while. He'll deal with his eldest later.

John accepts his son's hand and it's a joint effort for him to get steady on his feet. He properly packs and collects his things and then he and Dean are off, trekking back into town and to the motel. The trip is tense and silent.

When they get there the salt line is unbroken and the door is still locked. John unlocks and lets them both in; the sweep of the door disturbs the salt and causes a gap. Dean waves John off and insists that he'll fix it. He nudges the little salt crystals with a foot but does not fully connect the line.

Sam is asleep on the floor with a blanket tucked around his waist; he's on his stomach with his head turned and cheek pressed against a book, drool dribbling onto the pages.

John shrugs out of his coat, about to take his boots off by the time Dean is already coat-less and shoe-less and picking Sam up to carry the younger boy to the bed furthest from the door.

Dean tucks Sam in before he doubles back to grab the book and blanket. The book is slid into Sam's open backpack and the blanket joins Sam on the bed. When decidedly finished, Dean sits at the edge of the bed and stares, watches Sam's chest rise and fall and his eyes move beneath their lids. Satisfied that his brother is fine, Dean heads to the sofa, drops down, spreads his knees wide and drapes an arm across the back cushions... taking up as much space as possible.

It's a show of dominance. He's claiming territory and leaving no room for his old man.

In that moment John feels like an outsider rather than the father and provider and protector that he is.

It's when Dean picks up the remote to channel surf and stops on the first channel with a vulgar display of flesh that John has had enough. The eldest Winchester kicks off his boots and swaggers over like the intimidating man he is. Once by the sofa he grabs Dean by the ear and pulls until the boy is forced to follow with clenched teeth and muttered curses. John lets go of the ear then grabs the remote and claims the sofa with the same widespread position Dean had used. He stares boredly as a snuff film plays out. It's all moans and grunts and doggy style. Tactless and ridiculous. John doesn't care. He's watching out of spite.

Meanwhile Dean's rubbing his pulled ear; it's the same one John had hit earlier. The feeling sucks. The irritation makes his teeth itch.

"This is stupid," Dean huffs, genuinely pouting now that there is no room on the couch for him.

John stares at the tv as he idly comments: " _No_. Stupid is that stunt you pulled in the woods. Even more stupid, you lied to me." He sends a rather dark sidelong glare towards his son. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's morning, you're running laps until you puke. Any refusal and I'll get my belt."

Dean's never been whooped, least of all as punishment from his dad. 

The boy figures, an eye for an eye.

_A threat for a threat._

"You even try to belt me, I'll call 911. I'll tell them you touched me. I'll-"

"Christ, Dean, what the hell is wrong with you?!" John rose to his feet and stared his boy down. His breath came in angry mechanical puffs. 

Dean stared back, defiant. Truth be known, he didn't know what he was doing. It was impulse. Raw and unabashed. The worse he behaved, the more liberated he felt. Day in and day out, caught in routine with limited options, stuck in either school or a mold-scented motel room with tiny seashell-shaped soap, he felt caged. He needed some form of an outlet. If not, some part of him worried he might slip up and take his aggression out on Sam.

And he couldn't hurt Sam.

Sam was off limits.

Sam was-

"Dean. Dean," John cut through his son's thoughts by calling his name a few times and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Whatever is wrong, we'll work it out. I've got some ideas..."

And John did have some ideas.

First he needed to pay Singer a visit. Get that checked off his list.

Then, maybe it was time to visit his old friend Jim Murphy. 

It would be good for the boys.


	9. Chapter 9

It's midday when John pulls the kids from school. Sam's cheeks are flushed and his hair is wet with sweat from playing out in the hot sun for recess. Dean is moody at best, pulled from a 'skip class and rendezvous with a blonde' session; he can still taste her cherry chapstick.

The car ride is blanketed with John's choice of music, both boys occupy the back seat because Sam is young and Dean's behavior as of late does not earn him any favors.

John turns a blind eye when his sons exchange elbow nudges and call each other names. The rearview mirror shows them smiling and Sam bursts out in hysteric laughter when Dean whispers something in his ear.

It's times like this when it feels like their little family is going to be okay.

They grab some greasy drive-through food and are still munching on fries when they pull up to Singer's Salvage Yard in Sioux Falls.

John's just getting out of the Impala when an older man steps out of the abode carrying a flask and a gun; the screen door bangs shut with a rickety clamor. He surveys his oncoming guests. 

"Singer?" John calls out.

"Who's asking?" comes the gruff reply.

"Winchester. A hunting buddy pointed me here, said you could help."

The older man nods and approaches, eyes the Impala appreciatively, gets a look at the two boys- the older one had removed a shoe and is trying to make the younger boy smell his sock; they are contorted awkwardly in their playful struggle.

"Why don't you all come in and we'll talk shop." It's not a question. As Singer talks, he unscrews the cap on his flask and swiftly splashes some of its contents onto the eldest Winchester's face.

John blinks through the water as it cascades down his face like racing stripes.

"Holy water, as a precaution," the old man says, then caps his flask and turns to head inside.

John wipes his face with a palm and calls for the boys to come along. 

Sam's door opens and he practically falls out; Dean pulls on his boot and 'helps' by shoving and climbing out behind his little brother.

John follows Singer and expects his boys to do the same.

Sam and Dean take their time stretching their legs and walking around. It's only natural after a long car ride. Tight tendons are loosened and joints pop with a some stretches and bends. It's a good feeling. Relieving like a morning piss or an evening shower.

"Sam," Dean's voice is abrupt. "Sammy," the tone is full of concern and his face is screwed up in pained confusion. He has the look of a kid who bears witness to the family pet getting hit by a truck.

Sam looks to his brother and tilts his head in question. "Yeah, Dean?"

Dean slides his foot along the dirt and loose gravel, but after a few passes it's more than that. Camouflaged by a loose cover of dirt is a welcome mat, its rounded corners and general texture only visible when looked at directly. 

Curious, Sam closes the gap between himself and Dean and kneels to check out the mat. He reaches down and dusts it off, revealing what looks like a circle drawn with red paint. The circle encases a 5-point star and a few symbols. 

It's an odd place for an odd choice of decor, but none of that is as odd as the fact that his big brother seems almost frozen in the middle of the painted circle.

Dean slides his foot again but is incapable of breaching the circle. His eyes are wide with uncertainty. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth; his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows a mouthful of spit. "Sammy, I need your help." He closes his eyes and confesses: "I'm stuck." When his eyes open, their usual green is tarnished and there is no way to blame the light for playing tricks. His eyes are black.

Sam used to call them ' _magic eyes_ '.

Now, Sam's frowning where he kneels and looks up at Dean. He glances back down at the dusty welcome mat and traces a finger over part of the red design.

"Should I go get dad?"

Slowly, Dean shakes his head. "Don't you dare..."

Sam curls his fingers and scrapes at the edge of the circle with his nails. It takes a bit of work but the red is gradually chipped away until there is a break in the circle and Dean is able to step out of the trap.

Sam stands beside his brother and both boys stare down at the red painted design with mixed emotions. 

This isn't good. 

Sam's eyes sweep over the yard where he can see several spots with the dirt slightly raised, presumably more traps are strategically placed. There is one right outside Singer's door. Sam wordlessly points it out.

Dean's at a loss. He can't go near that trap. If John realizes just how different he is, he won't be threatened with a belt.

"I think I'm a monster, Sammy."


	10. Chapter 10

Sam is smart, to put it simply. Teachers from multiple schools have labeled him _gifted_. He excells in math, linguistics, and reading and has aptly read most opportune material as it came his way. 

Some kids called him weird. Some used words like geek and nerd. A few went as far as to call him a freak.

But Sam learned to bite his tongue and try to suffer through. He didn't want to take that negativity home. He'd done that before, tried to talk to his dad about it but John had been writing in his journal and simply waved him off. Then Sam told Dean, and his own desire for attention and sympathy at time had led to deliberate whining and exaggeration. Embellishment. A mountain out of a molehill. Sam was naive at the time; he couldn't have known that when Dean boldly declared "I'm gonna rip his freakin lungs out," the threat should have been taken more seriously.

The young bully did not have his lungs ripped out, but he did end up in the hospital with his windpipe nearly crushed. Dean was spared punishment with a stubborn amount of denial, an alibi, and the victim being too afraid to name an assailant.

John was suspicious though. And Sam had a good idea...

Sam stopped complaining to Dean after that. He pulled a 180 and limited talk of any potential friends or enemies and mainly jabbered on about school work. 

It was a good cover, made him appear more studious while keeping peers off his brother's radar.

Point is, Dean had and would always have his back if needed, and if Sam could return the favor, he would. He just needed a good cover story and a tiny bit of acting.

Which is how little Sammy Winchester found himself half running and half stumbling into Singer's abode, shouting "Dad!" like his life depended on it.

John was seated across from Mr. Singer, a coffee table full of books and loose sheets of paper between them. They were discussing lore and Singer was relaying notes on different types of warding. For his turn, John was running through hypothetical scenarios, to get another hunter's perspective and advice regarding the famed Yellow-Eyed Demon.

Sam's panicked shout and thudding footsteps make themself known when Singer is sliding his notes on Demons toward John.

"Sam?"

"Dad!" The boy is panting too hard for the short sprint. "Dean's gone!"

Bless the old man, but Singer appears more alarmed than John.

John hasn't lost his calm yet when he asks Sam what happened. But Singer is already straightening up a pile of papers and going to look outside.

Sam shakes his head frantically. Jittery movements and nervous behavior should mask any botched expression he tried to pull. "Dean said he didn't want to get chummy with an old guy, so he was going to find something else to do!" Sam's eyes are wide and he flails his arms for dramatic effect. "He got in a stranger's car!"

John stares Sam down, their eyes meeting like warring nations. The elder Winchester isn't buying it. Dean has been behaving like a brat but he's never deliberately run off, least of all without Sam.

Sam had to think on his toes to drive his story home. He had to lie, and it had to be a really good one.

Getting Dean in trouble and having their dad fired up was the way to go. An angry John dealing with a rebellious Dean is better than an obsessive hunter discovering that his son isn't human.

Sam's lie comes before he thinks it through. "Dad! He got into a stranger's car! The driver had- had... _weird eyes_! Really weird! And Dean just- it's _not_ his fault!" Sam shuts his mouth so tight that his teeth hurt and his lips tingle.

Because, _eyes_. He should never mention eyes. True, he didn't say that Dean was the one with magic eyes, but drawing attention to eye-related anomalies felt like he was throwing his brother under the bus.

Sam's lie had an instant effect.

"What kind if eyes?" It's Mr. Singer who asks.

Not knowing what other kinds of eyes there are, Sam answers: "Black eyes..." He shuffles his feet and looks down, guilty, but he hopes the overall picture comes across as sad or fearful.

Finally John is up on his feet and taking charge of the situation. "Singer," he says. "Can you put a word out, about my boy? And do you mind watching Sam for a bit?" John places a heavy hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezes; it's meant to be comforting but Sam just feels sick. 

He hopes he's done the right thing. Dean had confided with swarn secrecy, sealed with a pinky promise: told him that their dad goes out and hunts real monsters... to protect people.

Their dad is some sort of hero.

But what did that mean for Dean, who isn't like most people? Dean, who thinks he's a monster?

How far would John Winchester be willing to go?

...

Meanwhile, Sam's lie wasn't too far off. Dean really had run off, hit the end of Singer's lot on foot and flagged down the first approaching vehicle.

He figured he could take care of himself. Being a monster had that advantage. 

Dean trusted he could handle himself until his dad cooled off and put Mr. Singer and those traps in the rearview mirror. Then they could do the family thing. 

"You a friend of Bobby's?"

It's an odd question that has Dean's face twisting into a confused grimace. "Who?"

"Where you heading?" Another question Dean doesn't have an answer to.

He flounders for the right words but before he can even speak a sharp blade cuts a line across his arm and he recoils in surprise.

The silver blade wasn't bad. Just startling.

What really gets him is when someone says: "You must be thristy," and dumps _water_ on him.

It looks like water. It's colorless, odorless, and tastless.

But it burns.

Dean screams and jerks up out of the seat of the car, attempting to put himself through the windshield just to escape the sudden sensation of burning.

It feels like his skin is lifting from the muscle underneath. 

He screams and kicks and pushes but hands are holding him back.

Water keeps coming, each drop feels like an acid bath.

Dean's four years old again, surounded by a fire he doesn't remember.

In his struggle, his foot connects with the side of the driver's head.

It's merciful when the car swerves and crashes.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters will be short and sporadic. Snippets and snapshots of the Winchester family.


End file.
